Polgreen took a bubble-wrapped package out of his briefcase. He unwrapped a plaster cast of the human mouth fitted with a prosthesis that looked like fangs.
“I made these for the production company of a Dracula film,” he said. Using his pencil, he explained, “This prosthesis has only four canines, or fangs, if you will, two on top and two on the bottom. I’ve replaced the incisors with a flat metal bar that connects the canines. The bar strengthens, and acts as the vertical stop. Notice that the stop is an inch and a half above the point of the canines, allowing the user to bite deep before being stopped by the bar. I’ve replaced the bicuspids and molars with a flat metal bar, and further strengthened it by using crossbars connected to both sides of the bridge.”
Tapping the prosthesis with his fingernail, Vinda asked, “Could this kill a person?”
“This? No. This is made for show. It’s porcelain. But one constructed of a chromium-cobalt alloy, with razor-sharp canines—that would be a very deadly weapon.”
“Why haven’t we found any puncture wounds or entrance marks on any of the victims?”
“That is the clever part. Watch.” Polgreen took the cast in his hands and opened the mouth. “When your killer bites down, the points of the canines puncture the skin. Then, as he continues his bite, they would come together, shearing through the skin and slicing deep, but leaving no telltale entrance marks or punctures. And the vertical bar across the front of the mouth is flat and would leave no clear marks.”
Vinda took the fangs from Polgreen and practiced opening and closing them. “Why didn’t the other prosthodontist I interviewed know this? He told me it was impossible.”
“I can only surmise that he didn’t bother to think out the problem. He probably dismissed the idea out of hand because of the construction of the human mouth. I do a lot of research on the subject because I probably do more work for the stage, television, and movies than any other dentist in the country. That’s how I first met Malcolm.”
“He made movies?”
“I used to produce them, years ago.” Webster had drifted unnoticed back into the room, and had been sitting silently on a settee in a distant corner.
Vinda glanced back at the onetime movie producer and then asked the doctor, “Who could make these fangs?”
“Ah. Now you come to the hard part,” Polgreen said, brushing his finger over the canines. “Any good prosthodontist could make the cast, but getting them made would be difficult.”
“Why?” Vinda asked.
“No reputable doctor would order such a dangerous prosthesis without some compelling reason—and if he did order them, no reputable lab would make them.”
“Couldn’t our guy design them himself?” Vinda asked.
“Yes, he could. But he could not take the mold of his own mouth. That a dentist would have to do for him. And no lab would make them without a prescription listing the dentist’s identification number.”
“So? Where did he get them?” Vinda asked in frustration.
Polgreen sank back into the soft leather, and, concentrating, said, “I’ll have to dwell on that a moment.”
Vinda heard the tinkle of ice and turned to see Webster standing by the secretary desk made of burr walnut, pouring Wild Turkey into a rock glass. Webster saw him looking, and held out the bottle to him. Vinda shook his head no.
Ruminating aloud, Polgreen said, “No dentist or lab would make them, so your man would have to go into the underground.”
“What underground?” Vinda asked.
Polgreen leaned forward, his hands cupping his knees. “Refugee dentists, mostly from the Soviet Union, who are too deficient in English to sit for the licensing exam, or who feel they’re too old to go back to school to take makeup courses. There is a flourishing illegal medical network out there among Soviet emigrés. Mostly in the Brighton Beach section of Brooklyn.”
“May I keep these for a while?” Vinda asked, looking at the molds in his hands.
“Of course,” Polgreen said, snapping his case closed and getting up.
“Like a drink, Sid?” Malcolm Webster called.
“No, thank you, Malcolm, I’m running behind schedule today.”
“My driver is downstairs. He’ll take you wherever you want to go,” Webster said, putting his glass down on the desk and walking Polgreen out to the elevator.
Vinda got up and went over to the wall, where he gazed out over Central Park. Ice skaters whizzed over the frozen pond while a forest of trees sprouted up through the glistening whiteness, mushrooming upward into a candelabra of barren branches. Off in the distance the soft white glow of the thousands of lights that festooned the Tavern on the Green lit up the gray day.
Vinda was suddenly struck by the fact that this would be his first Christmas without Jean; an almost paralyzing depression came over him.
Hearing footsteps, he turned and saw Webster walking over to the secretary for a refill. Vinda shook off his mood and said warmly, “Thank you for finding Polgreen.”
Webster made a dismissive gesture and continued to plop ice cubes into his glass. “I’ll do anything to get the bastard who murdered Adelaide.”
Vinda walked over to the secretary and ran his finger over its beautiful carved wood. He looked at Webster and asked, “You ever know a guy named Frank Griffin?”
Webster picked up his glass and, shaking the ice thoughtfully, finally answered, “No.”
“You sure?”
“Lieutenant, I’ve met many people over the course of my life, all of them occupying different levels of intimacy. Please don’t expect me to resurrect a forgotten ghost on a minute’s notice.” He drank bourbon, slammed the glass down on the secretary, and walked over to the glass wall.
“Twelve years ago you squashed this ghost’s story in the media. You also reached into the department and ensured that everything was done properly.”
Genuine surprise showed on Webster’s face. “That Frank Griffin,” he muttered, staring off in the distance, concentrating on forgotten memories. “I remember now.”
“Why did you have the story killed?”
“Griffin had worked on a few of the movies I produced. I only knew him casually from the set. Anyway, after the accident with his wife, he telephoned me, begging me to use my influence to have the story buried. He’d always been a nice guy, and he was in a lot of pain, so I did it. No big deal.” He tossed down the remainder of his drink.
“A casual employee of yours telephones, asking you to kill a news story and ensure that the department stonewalls it too, and you do it, just on the basis of his being a nice guy?”
“Yes, just like that. I get off on helping people. It helps me assuage the occasional pangs of guilt I get over some of my less commendable business activities.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
Webster banged his glass down, and sat on the sofa. He looked balefully at Vinda and snapped, “Yes, I do expect you to believe me. I told you, I felt sorry for him. Griffin was a loner who carried around a lot of luggage from his past.”
“What kind of luggage?”
“Don’t know. He was a strange, brooding man who kept to himself. The only time I ever saw him happy was when he told me he was getting married.”
“Did Griffin give you a reason for wanting the story killed?”
“He said he didn’t want the world to know that God had punished his wife for leaving Him to get married.”
“Didn’t you suspect that this guy might be a little nuts?”
“The man was distraught, in a lot of pain. I did what I could to ease his suffering.”
“I’m beginning to think you are a pussycat, Malcolm.”
Webster’s tone hardened. “You don’t ever want to do business with me.”
“What did Griffin do on the movie set?”
“A stunt and squib man.”
“What is a squib man?”
“Squibs are small electric or pyrotechnic devices used to ignite a charge. Whenever you’re at the movies
and you see bullets stitching along a wall or a car, or when you see some part of a body explode from a bullet’s impact, those are squibs, little charges concealed in the wall or on the actor’s body and set off electrically.”
“Then it’s safe for me to assume that Griffin was an explosives expert too.”
“Absolutely.”
“Whatever happened to him?”
“Don’t know. He called me up to thank me, and I never heard from him again.” Webster’s face clouded over as he saw where Vinda was heading. “Is Griffin the man who murdered Adelaide?”
“I don’t know, maybe.” Vinda felt a stab of panic. Webster was capable of killing anyone he thought might have killed his daughter. He wouldn’t wait for proof.
“How can I help you find him?”
“Do you still have access to the records of those production companies of yours, payrolls in particular?”
“Of course.”
“Dig me out Griffin’s social security number.”
“I’ll have it for you in the morning.”
“Good.” Vinda walked out into the foyer. A houseman appeared, holding his coat ready for him. Vinda slid his hands through the arms and shouldered the coat. He looked Webster in the eye and said, “Thanks. Stay in touch. And resist temptation, okay?”
Webster didn’t respond, but turned on his heel and walked away.
The late-afternoon wind whipped across Vinda’s face, invigorating him. He dashed across Sixty-eighth Street and got into the car. Tossing the vehicle identification plate back behind the visor, he saw Webster rush out of the building and look frantically around. Vinda got out of the car and called to him.
“I’m glad I caught you,” Webster said, running over to him. “After you left, I remembered that there was one person on the set whom Griffin was friendly with. They grew up in the same orphanage. His name was Otto Holman, another stunt and squib man.”
Vinda clenched his teeth. “Malcolm, were there any big stars in any of your movies?”
“Stars don’t play in B-movies. Although Jessica Merrill did have a bit part in Thin Lies. She played the other woman.”
“I have a strange feeling that she plays that part well.”
“Yes, she does.”
Vinda rested his hands on Webster’s shoulder and, staring him straight in the eye, said, “Malcolm, ol’ friend, I’d like you to do a few more things for me.”
A tendril of grayish white smoke came up from behind the barricade of books.
Vinda still had trouble reconciling himself to the dichotomy of seeing Freud and a crucifix side by side on the wall of Sister Mary Margaret’s office. He grinned as he made his way around the piles of books and journals cluttering the floor.
Peeking over the top of her desk, he said, “Afternoon, Sister.”
“How did I know you would be dropping around sometime today?” she said, following his gaze down to the overflowing copper ashtray. She shrugged. “Who am I kidding? God knows I smoke, and He doesn’t mind. So why should I be concerned about what anyone else thinks?”
She looked at him with a troubled face. “I heard about the murder at the convent in Brooklyn.”
Vinda drew up a chair and sat down, saying, “We now have reason to believe the killer was married to a former nun who received permission to leave in order to marry, and was killed accidentally shortly after her marriage. We think her husband might be the guy we’re looking for.”
As he talked, Sister Mary Margaret slid open the top drawer and began unconsciously fingering the rosary coiled up in the paper-clip insert.
He continued, “Last time we spoke, you told me that vampires only kill young women because their blood is pure and strong.”
“Yes.” She had taken the rosary out and now held it in her lap.
“The young nun inside the convent was murdered the same way the other women were. We now know for a certainty that he is not drinking their blood. He kills as though he were a vampire, but he kills to shed blood, not drink it.”
She got up and, with her rosary dangling from her hand, went over and stared out the window. She stood there for some minutes before she turned and carefully pushed plants aside and sat on the sill.
Watching her, he thought how un-nunlike she looked in jeans, sneakers, and a sweater. Her black veil cascaded just below her shoulders.
She looked across at the portrait of Freud, and asked, “Do you know why sick people have a need to shed blood?”
“In some of them it represents a sexual act.”
“Yes, that’s true. But there is another reason. From earliest times human blood has been used to solemnize the pledged word. To create a bond between people. Blood is considered, even today, the most sacred and irrevocable of seals. The Mafia sheds inductees’ blood during their initiation ritual, and the new members are then called ‘wise guys’ or ‘made men.’ Fraternities and some secret religious societies draw blood at initiation ceremonies to swear loyalty and brotherhood.”
“You think our guy is pledging blood to God?”
“We can hypothesize that the killer was a good man when he married. It is entirely possible that his wife’s death finally pushed the man over the edge of sanity. In his own mind he might not be able to accept the death of his wife. He could believe that by shedding the blood of young women he is securing God’s protection for himself and his wife.”
“How could a ‘good man’ do murders?”
“As I told you, paranoids assume different personas when they do evil. By doing that, they spare themselves the punishment that their acts have earned them.”
“Let me run this by you, Sister. Griffin kills randomly to protect his wife and himself, but he also kills selectively anyone who knew about him and his wife, because he does not want anyone living to know that God damned his wife because she had forsaken Him to marry.”
She smiled. “Very good. You must have paid attention during Psych 101 and 102.”
“It doesn’t come from a classroom, Sister. It comes from twenty years on the Job. Not that I ever ran into anything like this. But I’m starting to get a feeling for what this man is like. Being in his mind is like walking through a dangerous neighborhood, one I’ve never been in before. So I need for you to give me a map.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Strollers moved along Tudor City’s promontory in the deepening shadows of early twilight. Inside the vest-pocket park a black squirrel leaped up onto a tree, scampering to safety, leaving a frustrated dog scratching the trunk.
Jessica Merrill came into the park, her ears buried inside the collar of her chinchilla coat. She looked around for Worthington; not seeing him, she pushed back her sleeve to check the time. Exactly 4:00 P.M. Glancing at the landscape around her, she moved over to a bench, dusted it clean with her handkerchief, and sat down.
She leaned back to watch a group of boys throwing snowballs at three girls. When she was growing up, there was never time for such frolicking. Most of her childhood had been devoted to classes in acting and elocution, dancing and singing. Her childhood had been one big damn lesson. Her father, a misogynistic runt of a man, had worked in his youth in second-rate clubs as a comedian. He had been full of determination that his pretty daughter was going to be the star he wasn’t. A glimmer flickered across her eyes as she recalled her first acting part. It was in Miss James’s third-grade class, where she played the lead in Alice in Wonderland. She sighed and thought that catching the dream had not turned out to be as much fun as chasing it had been.
“Hello, Jessica.”
Worthington’s voice startled her. She quickly recovered. “How are you?”
“Wonderful,” he said, relaxing on the bench next to her. Half turning and sliding his arm across the back of the bench, he said, “But you look troubled, Jessica.”
“I’ve been contemplating my life and wondering if it’s all been worth it.”
“Many women throughout the world would be happy to trade places with you.”
“Don’t you think I’m aware of how incredibly lucky I’ve been? It’s just that I’ve been thinking lately about my own mortality. Religion and spirituality. I never did understand the difference between them.”
“Religion is for people who want to stay out of hell. Spirituality is for people who’ve seen hell.”
“Which of the two do you believe in, Michael?”
A thin smile of annoyance crossed his lips. “Why did you want to see me?”
“Do you remember Laura Steward? She had a walk-on in Lovers and Friends.”
“I remember her. She has a terrific exterior—and very little beyond that.”
Merrill ignored the sarcasm and went on bravely.
“I think she would be perfect for the part of the assistant district attorney in Reckless Disregard.”
“She’s too young. And she doesn’t look like a woman who’s made it in the kind of tough ballgame they play in a criminal court.”
“I admit that the casting would be unusual. But the kid has a certain brassiness and boldness about her, and I believe she could pull it off.”
He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “As I recall, her talent is somewhat … limited.”
Merrill refused to give up. “With hard work and the proper guidance, I’m convinced she would be perfect for the part.”
He brushed a forelock from her face. “I’m sure she would, with the proper guidance.” Lightly stroking her face with his hand, he said, “I’m mean to you sometimes, aren’t I?”
“Sometimes. But I understand. You’ve bottled up your hurt inside yourself, and sometimes it’s just too much hurt to carry, so you lash out.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to suggest her for the part to Paul Hiller.”
“Why don’t you put her name in nomination to the producer?”
She looked at the shadows slowly advancing across the snow and said softly, “Because I don’t want anyone to know that Laura and I are friends.” She put a deliberate emphasis on the last word, knowing that Worthington had long understood and sympathized with her secret desires. It was a secret they shared.
“I see.”
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